


Only Hope

by tessiete



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, tags updated as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-20 10:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30003402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete/pseuds/tessiete
Summary: The infamous "Year on the Run".In the wake of her father's death, Satine is assigned two Jedi to escort her safely back to Mandalore, but in the chaotic aftermath of a civil war, there is more at stake than one person's survival. Together, they work to unite Mandalore, overcome ancient grudges, and bring peace to a world ravaged by bloodshed.idk, guys, don't make me do summaries.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 54
Kudos: 49





	1. The Strix

**Author's Note:**

> I got nothing, ya'll.

* * *

At night, she dreams of Mandalore.

She dreams of the rolling hills. The lush plains. She dreams of the oceans, and the predators of the deep. The tani’rillan fish, giant beasts with great teeth, and mouths wide enough to swallow a man whole. She dreams of the jungles, and the dry tundra where wild striile roam, hunting alone, or sometimes in filial pairs, the younger apprenticing beneath the eye of their buir until they outgrow their exacting authority, and set off for wilder parts alone. She dreams of clear blue skies. She dreams of two moons slipping through black clouds like the silver leaves of galek trees turning over and over in the wind. She hears the cry of a strix, and feels the slow, heavy beat of its wings thunder above her. She feels its feathers, steel sharp and blade thin. They skim over her, not hard enough to cut, but enough to leave her skin tingling and her soul galvanised.

The strix looms large. Its eyes burn red-black in the night, like the polarised visor of her father’s buy’ce. Its beak gleams like new blood. It opens its mouth, and when it speaks, it speaks in her father’s voice.

_Olaror yaim, ner mesh'kalesera. Olaror yaim._

She wakes, and Mandalore is gone. Her father is gone, his voice, and the strange bird, the sigil of her house, vanishing like smoke, the candle of whimsy now extinguished. She has no time for whimsy. Coruscant is too ambitious a place for that.

She is quartered in a modest complex on the upper levels in the Senate District, the bald egg of the Senate dome rising from the horizon outside her windows. Her rooms are sparse, her own tastes modest, and simple in design. She longs for the brave geometry of Mandalore, and has purchased a small table in a shape reminiscent of an iron heart to decorate her sitting room. A jug of Kalevalen kalesera, often called peace lilies, sits atop the crystalline frame, and the light refracts through the prisms of the glass, making the petals glimmer like stars. This is her one concession to home.

But she is not here to dream, or pine. She is here to learn. War rages on and her father would rather his daughter study the politics of the Republic than don the beskar of her clan. 

“We can have peace. We will. But I will not be the one to see it,” he’d said, as she stood on the docks in her trifold scarf, and soft woolens. “That is for you. Instead, I will wear the steel again. You go learn how to reforge it. We are a people who have known war. We do not fear it. But neither must we kneel before it. Neither must we be enslaved by our bloodlust. Neither must we drown in it. I shall stem the flood, but you must turn the tide.”

And so, she studies.

She attends her classes - _has_ attended them, for nearly two years now. When she entered, she had been a child. Only sixteen. For the first few months, she had missed home terribly. She’d missed her room, her things, her ulik calf and the greenhouse full of flowers growing in her mother’s memory. She missed her sister who had left before her, sequestered away at the Royal Academy, safe in Sundari. She missed her father, who commed her when he could, and sent her holos rarely. Her brave, handsome father with his square jaw, and buy’ce bright eyes, who saw so clearly what had to be done, and never hesitated. Her father who had held her on the docks at Kalevala, his embrace awkward and strange. He had never hugged her in armour before. She missed her father.

Her nurse had come to the Core with her, and remained for a few months. She could hardly remember life before Arpat, and had found solace in her company in all the loneliest times of her childhood, so at first, her exile had been bearable. But when news reached them of the massacre at Pohja she knew she could not ask Arpat to stay. Her mother was in Pohja. And so, Arpat went home, and she now lives on Coruscant alone, while her father raises armies, spills blood, and breaks his own heart in doing so.

But that is something to contemplate on another morning, for this one is not her own to waste.

She shakes off the melancholy of her strange dream, and the memories of Mandalore, and gathers her materials for the day. The sun rises fast on Coruscant, helped ably by the thinness of its atmosphere, and the eager glint of so many windows and spires. Already she is running late. Her comlink blinks. A message is waiting. She sighs, and checks the chrono. It shall simply have to wait a while longer. 

She wraps her hair up in her trifold scarf, but instead of the clothes of her people, she dons the simple dress of a scholar. Not a common fashion, nor quite as specific as a uniform, the wide trousers with the square cut shirt made from modalweave mark her out as the likely pupil of a particular academic set. And indeed, the select student majors of Diplomacy and Statecraft at Capital City’s famous Lyceum of the Goddess Corusca do stand out. They are few, and they are firmly united for the programme is elite, and the course load infamously demanding. 

Of her class, there are a few with whom she shares a particular intimacy. There is Solfar, a Peshwa of Kalinda; T’Bin Iise, one of the twelve prophesied chiefs of Nola; Bigbet, the son of a disgraced king; and Breha Organa, princess of Alderaan. Of them, it is Breha she confesses the most to, but even she is not Bo-Katan.

And she knows she is not Deara. But still, they have each other.

Even though she arrives out of breath, and the chime for class hour has already rung, Breha is waiting for Satine at the gates of the Lyceum in matching dress, and a quiet smile.

“You’re late,” she smirks, handing over a piece of candied starblossom, which Satine takes eagerly. “Did you oversleep?”

“Strange dreams,” Satine replies. “I didn’t hear my alarm.”

Breha smiles again, this time her expression sliding from playful mockery into a serene kind of joy. Such is Breha’s way. She is always happy.

“Pleasant ones, I hope,” she says. “Maybe of Solfar?”

“Oh, please,” Satine sniffs. “As if his head could fit through the doorway into mine.”

“If he should hear you say that -”

“You know he would agree!” Satine protests, pushing Breha into outright laughter. Her mirth echoes down the old stone halls as they stagger on to class, step in step with each other, the wide legs of their trousers tangling up between them until they become one, flowing gaily like some young river.

At the doorway to their classroom, her comlink chirps again. She curses, and silences it, shoving it deep into her satchel. Pedant Unyyk has notoriously sharp hearing - her ears comprising fifty percent of her head - and very little patience for interruptions. Breha’s worry eases as the device is smothered, and with a light touch that only she has mastered, she opens the door at the back of the hall so that they may sneak, unseen to their seats. 

Breha sits, setting out her pad and her fruit, and a placid expression of polite interest. Satine is only a moment behind her, but it is enough. She lowers herself into her seat just as Pedant Unyyk fixes her with a glare.

“Miss Kryze,” Unyyk trills, her accent striking brightly against the consonants of her name. Satine shrinks back in her seat, while Breha stifles a giggle. Breha is never singled out. “If you would proceed to the doyen’s room, so that I may continue my lesson in peace, we would be most obliged.”

“Bad luck, solderni,” Breha mutters, not sounding at all sympathetic to Satine’s misfortune, but Satine will not hold a grudge.

Instead she snatches the remaining slices of starblossom from Breha’s place, and smiles compassionately in her turn. 

“Bad luck to you,” she teases, biting into a sliver of fruit. “I’m not the one who’ll be forced to suffer the next three hours of _Early Modern Ethics of the Churba Region_ all on my lonesome, will I? Enjoy!”

She hefts her bag, and with a pert, insubordinate step dances from the room, leaving Breha to her misery. 

The halls are long, and empty. Along each wall, the old fashioned durasteel gates are pulled low over the more modern pneumatic doors, or sometimes stand alone, letting her glimpse the caged students beyond. Many peoples from many worlds are bent low over their desks, holopads flickering, projectors spinning through theories and formulae while a wide variety of digits attempt to copy the information down. Satine smiles at her own freedom, whilst reveling in that same atmosphere of learning, and study, and growth which has provided her with such a haven as she has had these past two years. She loves the Lyceum. And she has no doubt she can convince the doyen - a rather ancient Bothan - of her appreciation, and respect. Perhaps then, she might wheedle her punishment down to only a few afternoons of time management conferences instead of a semester’s worth of accountability check ins - the worst she can possibly imagine for such a small, insignificant slight.

But Doyen Van’yla isn’t in his office when she arrives.

It is early. Perhaps he has stepped out for a kaff, or is touring around the lecture halls to appraise the pedants and pupils alike. She sits on a small, open-backed stool just outside the office, smiling at the protocol unit plugged into the bank of processors on the far wall. Of course, the droid cannot smile back, but it bobs its head, acknowledging her in that state of perpetual shock all such units seem to wear.

After a few moments of waiting, Satine speaks up. 

“Do you happen to know when the doyen will be back?” she asks.

“Doyen Van’yla did not indicate any particular time to expect his return.”

“How long ago did he leave?”

“Approximately twelve minutes and forty-three seconds ago.”

Satine considers this. She bites her lip, and tosses the last couple slivers of fruit between her hands. She waits. She admires the intricate carvings of the moulding upon the ceiling. She cranes her head to look out the window behind the protocol droid, catching glimpses of aircars, and distant pedestrians. She flicks on her datapad, and flicks it off again, and considers that really, she is in quite an unreasonable position: she is no more a miscreant than Breha Organa, except that Pedant Unyyk likes her less. It is unfair that she should be punished, and sillier still to think that she should seek out that punishment, meekly spending half the morning in patient attendance of the doyen’s unpredictable schedule. 

A quick examination of the hall outside the office proves that Van’yla’s return is not imminent, and so Satine slides her datapad back into her bag, and rises from her seat.

“I’ll just return later, if that’s alright with you, TeeCee?” she offers the droid.

“What shall I tell the doyen?”

“Oh, it’s nothing important, really,” she says. “Only I shouldn’t like to miss my next class should Doyen Van’yla be delayed any further.”

“Very good, miss,” the droid replies. “I shall inform him of your reasoning upon his return.”

“Thank you, TeeCee,” she graciously replies, with a small curtsey to her unwitting liberator. “That would be very good of you.”

“Goodbye, Miss Kryze,” the droid calls after her, as she positively skips out the door, and onwards from the way she came.

She has three hours. Three hours of perfect freedom, and she knows just how she wants to spend it.

The platform at Lyceum Station is fairly deserted at this time of day, the most frequent passengers having disembarked hours before in anticipation of classes, but there are a few lingering riders. She can feel suspicious eyes upon her and her small bag, her wardrobe betraying her truancy, but she pays them little mind. Let them wonder, let them envy - she is skipping school, today! 

The maglev train pulls into the station, and she boards it, careful to mind the gap and tap her chit to the access panel at the side of the door. She grabs onto one of the upright poles and watches the people onboard. An older Shistavanen grumbles at the news as he flicks through the flexiplast screen displaying a variety of holonet stories, updated daily. A mother wrestles with her child, attempting to coax the babe into occupying a single seat, instead of sprawling his tentacles across four. A couple merges in the back, and Satine turns away, blushing. Some things deserve privacy. But she is not going far.

Four stops later, she arrives in the Verity District. A few disembark with her, but not many, the Verity District a place that only truly comes alive at night with the finest in art culture that Coruscant has to offer. The opera house lies one way down the concourse, the great Stone Theatre lies the other, but Satine chooses neither of these dormant delights.

Instead, she goes straight, exiting the platform, and easing her way out onto the bustling skywalk. Shoulder to shoulder, she navigates her course through a bevy of different beings, all hurrying somewhere, until she arrives at a massive dome made entirely of claricrystalline. The Cala Brin Gardens rise up before her, like a jeweled beetle glittering in the sunlight. 

Inside, there’s a small zoo, and research pods for visiting xenoscientists. There are concourse levels for shopping - it is one of the rare places in the whole city world that you can find small amounts of true, wood pulp _paper_ , imported from the few Outer Rim planets who still practice the craft. There are holobook shops, and tea rooms stocked with innumerable leaves from worlds she’s never heard of, and impossibly dainty confections to sip at them with. 

And then, at the end of the Great Hall, there are two small doors, and beyond them...the gardens.

Satine doesn’t pause, or linger. She has only an hour or so to spend here, before she must go back, and the gardens are easy to lose yourself in. At the entrance, a security officer checks her identchit, and membership code before letting her in, and on the other side, she breathes.

The dome vaults overhead, the clear crystal disappearing into the sky as sunlight streams in. Her skin prickles in the heat, the air is thick and sweet in her lungs. Beneath her feet, the concrete of the city has been replaced with sand, and leaf litter. Birds call out, invisible in the trees. She hears voices from a distance. Laughter. Something small skitters through the brush growing low beside her. Before her, paths branch out in all manner of direction, and she steps forth to follow. It doesn’t matter which one she takes, for they are all beautiful, all magical, and all have been trod by her many times before. 

As the door disappears behind her, she fancies she can hear the song of a senlaar bird crying out to her, and she thinks again of her dream. She wonders if the tani’rillan might find a home in one of the salt-water pools here, or if it would dream of oceans, too. She thinks about the striile, and how many might hunt in these curated forests composed of so many different worlds. She imagines the strix, its huge wings beating silently overhead, and she looks up, half-convinced she is being watched by it, but there is nothing above her, save the sun. 

She wanders, stopping to look at strange blossoms, or a peculiar climbing fungus. Clariferns grow at the top of a waterfall, the ground opening up to expose a deeper level begging for exploration. In the cool earth, there are black creepers, and prickly cocxyk bushes. Salamanders crawl there, and fat toads. She has been there before, and elects to keep to the higher paths.

Behind a grove of pippin trees, the forest falls away into an open plain where blue Stewjoni grass sways, covered in constellations of obiwan. Intermingled with them are many other wild blossoms, like musk-roses, and commelina blooms. Aura blossoms, puffballs, and purple passions sway in the wind of silent atmocyclers, disguised beneath the fall of tree branches encircling this idyll. Bright red ladalums, valued for their narcotic milk, unfurl like temptation surrounded by several other flowers of Alderaan. Breha had been much impressed at the ability of the Gardens to keep this species alive.

“They’re horribly choosy about their pollination methods,” she’d explained, in awe. “They abide none but other native species to support them. Very reluctant to accept help from anyone else.”

Satine had pretended not to hear the censure in Breha’s words, but felt a vague sort of kinship with the poor flower ever since. She reaches out now to stroke one of its velvet soft petals, and the blossom pulls away, as though sensing she is not its kind. Apparently, the sympathy is not mutually felt.

She nods at the little clutches of ugly zinthorn knots, feeling badly for flowers whose only mistake was in being particularly unappealing to the senses. They are comforted by diverging rings of moonflowers and sunbursts who coexist peacefully in a way that night may only dream of seeing the day. There are delicate golden fires, and rare hanelis; towering Biths, and little damsels. There are flowers she has seen many times, but can never recall the name of, and in one spot, beneath the shade of an old galek tree, there is a bed of kalesera. This is the place she comes to most. 

She kneels before them, and arranges her satchel into a rough sort of pillow before stretching out in the grass. She listens to the breeze, and pretends she’s home on Mandalore.

But the Mandalore of her dreams is gone. There are no oceans there, no grassy plains. The tani’rillan exists only in breeding centres, for study, and the strix went extinct nearly a millennia ago. Mandalore is a planet in ruins, its rich natural resources having been stripped for weaponry, and poisoned by warfare, and burned, and hollowed out, and hemorrhaged by centuries of violence. 

There had been some attempt at restoration, but that had been before Tor Vizsla exorcised his fury on the True Mandalorians for decades. Two years of relative peace under his tyrannical eye had not been enough to counter the agony of nearly twenty years of war. Or the violence of years before that. And his death at the hand of Mand’alor the Lost had only thrown her people back into bloodshed. 

Satine has never seen a true ocean, or a forest, though they say Concordia has them. But that is where Death Watch waits. The Cala Brin Gardens are as close as she has ever been. 

She closes her eyes, and dozes, letting the sun soothe her, and the blue grass cool her feet. Eventually, the shadows move, and she stretches. The gardens are so big that it is a rare thing to encounter anyone else in her perambulations, and today is no exception. It has been a brief hour of perfect peace. But the sun creeps towards its apex, and she rises, brushing her bag free of dirt, and turning back to make her way out.

She smiles at the security guard, and she smiles at the other visitors, stopping briefly to buy a small box of candied starblossom fruit to give to Breha. She feels like she imagines her friend must at any given time, as she drops bonelessly into a seat on the magtrain, deeply contented. At the Lyceum, she gets off and saunters back towards the main building of campus. There is dried grass still clinging to the backside of her trousers, and she raises her head to take in the sky here, wondering if it’s more or less wide confined by the steel and iron struts of industry than the glass prism of the Gardens. 

Breha is waiting for her at the gates.

“Where were you?” she demands as Satine approaches. Her smile is missing, and instead her brow is creased with many lines. She takes her by the hand, and pulls her close while Satine feels her own expression shift in confusion. “Everyone is looking for you.”

“I’ve only just been to the Gardens,” she protests faintly. 

“They’re worried you died.”

“What?”

“There’s been an attack - or a threat - I don’t know, but the school is in lockdown, and the CSF are here.”

The peace of her morning breaks away, and Satine can feel her shoulders rise, and her jaw tense. 

“What are you doing out?” she demands. Surely Breha would not be so foolish as to put herself at risk if there were a danger.

“I was going to look for you,” she says, proving Satine definitively wrong. “I had hoped you’d only run to the Gardens, but I was scared -”

“I’m fine, Breha,” she assures her friend. “And surely there’s no need for all this fuss. I’m sorry to have worried you, but I promise I was never in any danger.”

“You’d better go tell the doyen,” Breha states, still clinging to her arm. “The whole faculty is frantic. I thought Pedant Unyyk was going to have a fit when it was discovered she was the one who sent you off unchaperoned.”

“ _Unchaperoned_?” she cries. Satine clicks her tongue in dismay. “Oh, for goodness’ sake - I’ve not required a chaperone since I was a girl. Or do they forget, I am a Mandalorian.”

“No need to tell me, solderni,” Breha grins, her relief spilling over into her eyes. “I pity the being who would make such an attempt.”

Satine takes Breha’s hand in hers, and together they brave the frenzy of the Lyceum. 

Their entrance goes unremarked for nearly a minute as Satine stands in awe and confusion at the chaos therein. TeeCee stands between two uniformed officers, a memory drive in their hands as they download the record of her last interactions. Doyen Van’lya, his arms crossed, and expression grave, listens as Pedant Unyyk rants about the irresponsibility of youth, and how precedent makes fools of everyone in time. Solfar, and T’Bin linger in a group of other scholars, hovering in the door of the nearest lecture hall, but it is Bigbet, coming back from his dorm with his datapad who sees them first.

“Satine!” he shouts, and all eyes turn towards her while all voices fall silent.

She cannot tell if they fear her, as some apparition of death, or if they all hover on the verge of outrage for frightening them so, and wasting their time, so she waits for someone else to speak first. 

None of them do. None of them move.

Then, from out of the crowd, a figure appears. It is a tall man, taller than most humans she has met, but no taller than her own father, though in appearance he is vastly different. Where her belli is fastidious, this stranger is wild, and nearly unkempt. His ashen hair is long, and loose, save for a thin plait at the back. Adonai Kryze has short hair, and a clean face, in the style of Mandalore. This man wears flowing brown robes, instead of the tailored cloak and scarf of Kalevala. His boots are polished, though creased and worn. Her father replaces shoes the moment a crease appears. He launders a shirt the moment it wrinkles. He cannot abide even the barest hint of disarray. 

But there is something of this man’s carriage and gait that reminds her of home. His eyes are sharp, like a blade. His posture upright. He holds himself in a way that prompts Satine to take measure of her own stance. She rocks onto her toes, and feels his readiness inspire her. He is coming to wage war.

“Satine Kryze,” he calls. His voice lilts like the grasses of the Gardens, and she feels herself surrender up her fear. 

“I am she,” Satine replies, steady, and true.

The man stops before her, and bows low. His hands slip beneath the folds of his cloak, and he tilts his head to look her squarely in the eye. She is close enough she can see how he wears his years, the lines of his age branching out from his eyes in the mapping of joy. He is neither old, nor young, but somehow eternal. He is about her father’s age.

“I am Qui-Gon Jinn,” he says. “A Master of the Jedi Order. Might I speak with you somewhere private?”

A _Jedi_. She has heard the stories, and she feels herself tense again.

“No, Master Jinn,” she replies. “I am quite certain that anything you have to say to me might be said in the presence of my friends.”

He looks at her with pity, and her disdain turns to rage. The arrogance of the Jedi has not been overstated, at least. Master Jinn lifts a hand, and she flinches, prepared for some trick, or the hiss of his magic blade. But his palm is empty. He turns it over to demonstrate peace, and wraps it in his cloak again.

“Duchess Kryze, of House Kryze of the united clans of Mandalore, it is my sad duty to inform you that your father, Duke Adonai Kryze, is dead. At the behest of your family, and the Galactic Senate, I have come to take you home.”

In his words, she hears her father's voice.

_Olaror yaim, ner mesh'kalesera. Olaror Manda'yaim.  
_

_Come home, my pretty lily. Come home to Mandalore._

* * *


	2. The Duke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the Obitine discord, for their love and support! And to Jess, for being my fact-checker and continuity expert. And always, always Trees my tireless cheerleader.
> 
> I'm [tessiete](https://tessiete.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

* * *

  
Doyen Van’yla explains everything to her. His voice is calm. It crackles softly, breaking over the cruel words as if he were a wave, and they the breaker at the shore. She doesn’t hear him anyway. Her father is not dead, and so nothing Van’yla says can be of any value. He is wrong. Her father is strong. He’s a cunning warrior. He wears beskar’gam that has been in their family for more than a millennia. He told her only last week that Keldabe was close, and the army of the Ageless would take it easily. He’d mentioned admiring the work of the Kalevalen architects who had built the city, casing it in a dome of glass like the villages and metropolies of home. He’d said something about Bo-Katan refusing his calls, and the stubbornness of the Vhetts, but he’d said nothing of any danger, or fear, so Doyen Van’yla can say whatever he likes, but he is wrong. 

She is certain he must be, for there is further proof he can’t deny: there is a Jedi standing guard outside the door. Her father would never send a Jedi. 

“We received word early this morning, and have been trying to reach you,” the doyen says. “You were not meant to find out like this. I’m very sorry, Miss Kryze.”

She nods. The sun streams in behind him. It must be past midday. She’s missing _Trade Routes and Treaties of the Hydian Way_ , which is unfortunate because Solfar always makes that hour far more entertaining than their pedant, and now she’ll be stuck picking understanding from the rib cage of T’Bin’s bone dry notes. 

Doyen Van’yla falls silent. 

“Is that all, Doyen?” she asks, and she sees a shudder run through his peppered coat. Part of her studies have been dedicated to learning about other beings, and she knows Bothans express emotion not with their faces, but with their fur. The doyen is saying something, but it escapes her at the moment just what it might be. She’ll net it later, she thinks, as the doyen speaks again.

“I’m afraid it is, Miss Kryze,” he says. “Master Jinn will escort you back to your apartments where you may grab whatever necessaries you deem reasonable, while the rest of your belongings will be shipped back to Mandalore at the earliest convenience. After you have retrieved your things, you will travel to the docks, and board a ship, still under the protection of the Jedi, and make your way home.”

“What about my classes?”

“We’ll withdraw you from classes immediately. Of course, any credit you’ve already accrued will be transferred to your personal records,” he says. Satine nods again. After a minute, he sighs, seeming to wilt into his chair like an old blossom. “You have been a joy to teach, Satine, and I can not begin to express how sorry I am to see you go. Especially under such regrettable circumstances as this. You shall be greatly missed. I hope you find some peace.”

After that, the meeting is over, for there is nothing left to say. Satine rises, adjusts the strap of her bag, and smooths down the front of her shirt. A stray blade of grass clings to the cuff, and she plucks it free, twisting it between her thumb and forefinger. “Thank you, Doyen,” she says. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Van’yla’s ears fold back. That means something, too. 

“Goodbye, my girl,” he says.

She can think of no appropriate farewell, so she simply leaves, the door sliding wide to admit her. Outside, the Jedi waits. His head turns at the sound of her step, but his eyes remain on the hall, making sure it is clear of any threat. He reaches out a hand to guide at her back, but Satine shifts away.

“I am not a child,” she sniffs. “I do not need to be shepherded so.”

The Jedi bows his head with abbreviated elegance. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I would only request that we not linger here. With your permission, I will take you to your apartments now, and then to the docks. We can address your concerns on the way.”

She has no concerns, only disdain and disbelief. She wants to say no. She wants to tell him that she would never permit a Jedi into her house, and that his entire _talyc_ Order can burn up in the atmosphere for all she cares, but she longs for the privacy of her rooms and her bed and her things so that she may go back to sleep and wake again more clearly. Instead, she allows the man to shadow her, a pace behind and to the side. Together, they march from the doyen’s office, down the stone hall, through the ancient doors, across the courtyard, and to the aircar waiting by the concourse drop.

The ride to her complex is silent, save for the brief interruptions of their driver, who shouts at passing traffic and tries to make jokes with the Jedi. Jinn does his best to discourage the Ithorian, but perhaps he is simply too distracted to be cruel for he only smiles tightly, and turns his gaze to the lanes and cars around them. Satine, too, looks out over the Coruscant traffic and watches as first the Lyceum, then the dome of the Gardens disappear behind her.

They arrive to find the complex quiet. It houses mostly students, and young professionals, all of whom have better things to be doing than lounging in their rooms all day, though many wish they hadn’t. The corridors are empty, the turbolift to her level equally so, but when they reach her door, it is blackened with soot, the steel warped by fire and force. 

In an instant, Jinn’s readiness becomes a near palpable thing. He sweeps his arm across her, forcing her behind him, and slides the broken door open slowly. It does nothing to resist his entrance, traitorously pulling back to reveal her rooms beyond. Everything lies in ruins.

“I sense no life forms within,” says Jinn. “But there may still be some danger. I am going to do a sweep for any devices or tripwires which might have been left. You stay here.”

He disappears into the back rooms while Satine examines the wreckage of her home. The carpets are muddied with many feet, the wide claricrystalline window of the sitting room shattered, and left open to the wind. Her curtains flutter in ragged ribbons like torn flesh. Her sofa has been overturned, the little table smashed, and the jug of kalesara broken and scattered across the floor. She steps close to rescue the sole stem to have survived the rampage. The single white petal, wrapped around a golden spadex, is bruised, and the stem unable to support the nodding head of the blossom. She cradles it in her hands, and lays it out upon the marbleoid countertop of her galley, reaching for a glass, but there are none to be found. All the cupboards have been emptied, and the floor covered in the debris of their forms. She has nothing to put the flower in.

“Duchess Satine,” says Jinn, behind her. “Your rooms are clear. Whoever was here seems to have been satisfied with your absence at the time, but we cannot be certain they won’t return to ensure it. If there is anything of personal importance, you may retrieve it now, but I must insist on haste. I will be waiting.”

“I understand,” she assures him, stepping carefully over the glass. She leaves the poor flower to die on the counter.

She moves down the hall, cataloguing each stain on her carpets, and every bruise on her walls. The fresher door has been blown from its rails, and all her toiletries thrown into the head of the toilet to soak. Nothing may be salvaged there, so she moves on. Her linen pantries are tumbled, and the personal laundry droid tucked behind a quick release panel has been ripped from its moorings. A few loose wires spark from where one of its sonismoothers dangles limply. She slips past it, going all the way to the door at the far end, and though she hadn’t left it so, it also gapes wide.

Her bedroom has fared as badly as the rest of her home, the invaders having left nothing untouched. The coverlets of her bed are thrown back and torn, the mattress ripped open. Her draws have been overturned, intimates and sleepwear scattered and trampled across the floor. From her closet, her thick Kallervo cloak has been torn from its hanger, thrown aside, and viciously soiled. On the back wall, a small safe which contained nothing more than copies of her identchips and banking records is open, its contents tossed. But nothing there is stolen. She crosses the space to collect the datacards, and slips them into her pack. At each step, broken bits of ceramplast and crystal crack and groan beneath her feet, while a strange, and creeping numbness spreads from her head and her chest until her toes an fingers lose all feeling also. This is not her room. This is not her house. The destruction is so complete that she cannot recognise this place. 

Carefully, she sweeps some glass - the remains of a mirror, perhaps - from the carcass of her bed and sits. The far wall is scoured with a blaster shot, the burn scarring the pale green damask that Arpat had said reminded her of buy’shek glass, used for the huge windows of ancient Keldabe palaces. Her bag thumps heavily at her feet. Beneath an upturned shelf, she spies a powerpack for her datapad. It looks in good enough shape. The little light on it still glows an optimistic green, so she drops it into the hollow of her satchel where another small device chirrups in greeting. 

Her comlink. She had forgotten.

Pulling it out to examine it, the light flashes and it beeps again, reminding her of the messages she’d callously neglected. She checks them now. There are four from the Lyceum - one from Doyen Van’yla’s personal com, and three from TeeCee. Breha has left six, all in quick succession of each other. One comes from the front desk of her complex informing her of a noise complaint. And one comes from her father.

Alone, in her bedroom, she allows the message to play.

“Ner mesh’la kalesara,” it begins. _My pretty lily_. A blue ghost, dressed in beskar’gam but with his buy’ce tucked beneath his arm springs up in the palm of her hand. Adonai Kryze smiles. “I had hoped to catch you before you slept, but alas! I don’t think your dear old belli shall ever master the Coruscant time shift. Or perhaps you are out celebrating some scholastic success and I am interrupting a particular youthful indiscretion. In which case, allow me to remind you to be safe. And be gentle!” He adds. “Those Core soft beings will not know how to tame a Mandalorian, my girl. You must forgive them their weaknesses.”

She laughs at this, though it sounds choked and strange in the hollow of her room. Her father laughs with her, then continues.

“I hope you’re well,” he says. “And do not fret that this call presages any kind of dreadful revelation - I am also well, and only wanted to hear your voice. Keldabe will be ours tomorrow, and I begin to think we might see the end of all this bloodshed soon. I look forward to having you back in my arms, but for now, I shall be satisfied if you would be so good as to spare a moment from your much more interesting, and important activities to give your old buir a com. I love you, ner Sat’ika. I shall see you soon. Farewell.”

The light flickers out, and her father’s form with it. She inhales deeply. Somewhere, her perfume has spilled. She inhales deeply, again.

She puts the comlink back in her bag, and rises. With one last backward glance, she departs. There is nothing here she can take with her.

“I am ready to depart, Master Jedi,” she says, finding him standing guard over the lilies. The breeze sets his hair to dancing, as she awaits his approval.

If Jinn is surprised by the lightness of her travel, he does not show it. Instead, his mouth presses into a line somehow more grim than ever, swallowed completely by the fuzz of his beard, and nods his head.

“If you’re certain of it,” he says. “We have little time to waste, and cannot come back.”

“I am ready,” she says.

Swiftly, they move. The Jedi is steady. They go back down the hallway, down the lift, and past the directory droids to exit onto the streets. Though the complex was quiet, the skywalk is always bursting, but he maneuvers through the crowd like a predator, and Satine cannot but help to think again of the monstrous tani’rillan of Mandalore. He never stops, and the people part around him as though fearful of his snapping jaws, and razor teeth. He keeps her in front of him, and presses so close that she can feel the heat of him at her back, and see the shadow of his chin, and crooked nose cast over her face. He warns her not to stumble, and not to look back, and they walk on down the concourse until an airtaxi stops ahead. Barely waiting for the passengers to disembark, he pushes her into the backseat of the carriage, and slides in after her.

“To the CoCo Town docks, please,” he says, and the driver sets off. 

She can feel his disquiet in the tension of the arm pressed against hers, the pillow many layers of fabric doing nothing to soften the power cloaked beneath. He tugs at her elbow.

“Keep your head clear of the windows,” he says, urging her lower.

Unresisting, she does as bidden, but the cab is small, and her cheek brushes against the coarse wool of his robe as she leans over, stirring up the scent of dust, and dirt, and the warm western breeze. He smells like the Gardens, and she closes her eyes, imagining that she is still there, but the roll of air currents, and the hum of the engine cannot be ignored. She does not know if this driver is more or less chatty than their previous one, for she is so little aware of the passage of time. Her mind is blank. Her pulse is steady. She thinks of nothing, and before she realises it they’ve arrived at the docks.

“We’ve passage arranged on a small starferry,” he says, ushering her through the masses, and past the tickerdroids, blinking and beeping affirmations and negations as people hold out their chits for inspection. The Jedi clears them easily. “We thought it would be the least conspicuous means of travel.”

They pass a selection of shuttles and star rafts of modest size. Most companies use these to carry the passengers in small groups from the surface up to the ship, the larger transports being much too heavy to leave wet dock. However, the vessel he leads her to is old beneath a fresh coat of paint, and too large to be a transit shuttle. Her steps catch, and the Jedi is forced to stop lest he run her down.

“Will that make it all the way to Mandalore?” she asks, skeptically.

“All the way and then some,” he assures her. “It’s small, but I promise it’s perfectly comfortable on the inside. And it will grant us a measure of security the bigger ships can not.”

She hesitates still, but the Jedi is urging her to follow him, hand outstretched and eyes clear and searching.

“Come,” he insists. “Everything is being prepared.”

The interior of the ship is no more impressive than its exterior. Less so, she thinks, for the inside bears none of the pretense of fresh paint. Doors between common areas are wedged open, and secured with steel scrap and duratape, their control panels dark, and dusty, and every wall seems covered in a thin layer of grime. She sees evidence of patching, not just on the ship, but likewise on its passengers who are less expensively dressed than any of the denizens of Coruscant's upper levels. They are scattered about, variously engaged in preflight fussing, their dark and careworn clothes practically vanishing into the environment of the ship, while she stands out in her bright, solid hue. A few individuals dressed in blue coveralls move about, acting as both flight crew and hospitality staff, pausing only to wipe their hands clean of black grease before switching from coupling checks to food service, and back. Jinn steps closer as they are approached by one such person, distinguished from the rest by the red patches on his shoulders.

“Master Jedi,” he says. “We’ve been expecting you. Your boy was quite clear on his instructions, and I only hope we can manage to make your trip a pleasant one.”

“Thank you, mister -?”

“Oh, helmsman Mykenna,” the man chirps, smiling brightly and wringing a greying cloth in his hands. “Doing a few last minute checks before take off.”

“Excellent,” replies Jinn. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to allow me to accompany you after you show us to our berth?”

“Absolutely,” Mykenna replies. He seems far too eager to impress a Jedi, but Satine says nothing, only scowling at the peel of rust between a durasteel panel and a circular viewport. Surely that will not sustain at pressure. “This way.”

They follow him through the bowels of the ship, passing by a commissary, and public sleep tubes before reaching a tiny lift just behind the bridge. Inside, Satine finds herself pinned between the Jedi and the wall so that they all may fit. When they reach the deck above, the grate slides open and a narrow hallway falls out before them. On either side, thick, durasteel blast doors slice from floor to ceiling parting the corridor from the rooms beyond. Halfway between the lift, and the emergency exit ladder at the other end, Mykenna stops.

“This will be you,” he says. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, anxiously. Jinn claps him on the shoulder like an old comrade, and instantly, he smiles again.

“Perfectly sound,” he says, then turns to her. “You unpack, rest, and wait here. I’ll return shortly after this gentleman satisfies my curiosity. Does that suit you?”

“Of course,” she says, knowing and resentful that it doesn’t matter if it suits her or not. “I am happy to do whatever pleases you best, Master Jinn.”

Jinn’s gaze sharpens, and his beard twitches with irritation. “I would be pleased with your cooperation in this, though I suspect your happiness is too much to expect under the circumstances. No matter - you may believe me when I say you will be quite safe in my absence.”

“I was quite safe before your presence,” she replies. 

Mykenna laughs, high and nervous. “Younglings!” he says, though he cannot be much older than Satine herself.

To her annoyance, Jinn smiles in agreement. “Indeed,” he says. “Now, let’s be off.”

And the two men depart leaving Satine much annoyed, and less than satisfied with her introduction to the ship. She spins on her heel, and slams her palm against the old fashioned button at the side of the door, but the steel does not yield. She hits it again, and again - three times before finally, the panel drags itself out of the way to allow her access to her assigned quarters.

Though presumably capable of housing four beings, with two bunks stacked atop each other on facing walls, the room is decidedly cramped. The single glowpanel flickers above, as equally unconvinced of its surroundings as Satine is. A small sink is inset opposite the door, and a tin cannikin sits overturned upon the spigot. Two identical bags made of thick sackweave sit propped below, their coarse fabric matched perfectly to the sand coloured coverlets pulled tight across each bed. 

Beside one, the cabin boy stands. His hair cut short, and he is clad in many layers of travelling clothes, with black trousers, and a jacket made from the tanned hide of some scaly beast. Both articles appear well-loved and faded by time. In one hand he holds a thin pillow, while with the other, he sweeps his palm across the exposed sheets of the top bunk, pressing out any crease.

“Thank you, but I have no need of your services, boy,” she says primly, throwing her bag onto the nearest bed. Something in it strikes the wall hard, ringing out, and she feels the knell of it through her bones. She hopes that whatever it was broke.

The boy whips round, and she is caught in the gaze of eyes the same colour as Coruscant’s sky, but with none of the warmth of its sun.

“Excuse me,” he replies, “But I am not your valet.” His Coruscanti accent is sharp, and he snaps each word over the ridge of his teeth. 

“Then what are you doing in my rooms?”

“My master sent me ahead,” he says. “To prepare the way.”

“And so it has been,” she insists, drawing her patience to its length. “So you may run back to your master, and tell him so.”

“You cannot dismiss me,” he says. 

“I mean to try,” she serves back, but he doesn’t move. “Are you so impertinent to all your guests? Leave me, or I shall inform the captain of your insolence.”

“Tell him, then,” says the boy. “And see if he cares.”

She lifts her chin and turns her back to him. After meeting Mykenna, and seeing the rest of the crew she ought to be unsurprised by his manner. Her temper burns bright. She’d been promised a respite - she deserves one - yet now she finds herself having to negotiate for it.

“I am here with a Jedi,” she says, speaking slowly for the benefit of this stubborn dikut. “ _He_ shall see you out, if your master will not.”

He blinks at her, his colour slowly turning from white to red as he flushes to his roots. His hands twist at his side, and he clenches his jaw, chewing through the particularly tough meat of angry words. 

“Duchess Kryze,” he says, bending at the waist. His bow is much less graceful than Jinn’s though of the same general shape. He moves as though his limbs were braced by steel, and he dips himself much less deeply. “I am Padawan Kenobi. My master - who I would run to - is Qui-Gon Jinn, the Jedi you came with, and I will be part of your escort to Mandalore.”

She freezes for a moment, then scoffs. “Another Jedi,” she tuts. This is hardly more welcome than a vulgar crewmate.

Free of the weight of her bag, she yet feels the day hanging heavy upon her, and moves towards the sink to cleanse herself of it. The water runs over her fingers and pools in her hands. Indifferent to the observation of Kenobi, she splashes the liquid across her face, letting it cool her skin and rinse away the grime she has already begun to feel settling into her pores. The water drips from her brow, and courses off the tip of her nose. She licks her lips, and tastes the vague metal tang that is peculiar to recycled water on starships. “Well, you may run to your master anyway, and tell him that I grow tired of my escort, and have no need of them at present.”

“My master bid me stay.”

“I am giving you permission to do otherwise.”

She steadies herself, staring at the reflection of her own face, warped in the polished steel hanging over the sink.

“For your own safety, it is imperative that one of us remain with you at all times,” he insists.

“And yet, I would very much like to be alone.”

“It is my duty.”

“I care not for it.”

“I cannot leave you -”

“For stars’ sake, Jetii! Am I your ward, or am I your prisoner?” she demands, spinning to stare him down. “Or is your presence so particularly dreadful that you’re worried I’m bound to run?”

He lifts a brow, uncowed, and distinctly unimpressed.

“And where would you go?” he counters, and her eyes narrow.

“Out the airlock, if it means some peace!”

She drops to the bunk opposite him, and struggles to collect herself. Her hands are still wet, and she flexes them, clenching and unclenching her fists, watching rapt, as the lines and crevasses of her palms glimmer in the dim light. She hears him sigh. His jacket creaks as he shifts, but finally, after a long moment of silence she almost forgets is meant to be fraught, she hears the door release, and the panel slide up.

“I shall be just outside the door if you need me, Your Grace.”

“I shall not,” she vows. She does not wait to watch him leave, but leans back to lie against the lumpy pillow. It smells like nothing but closed up rooms, musty and forgotten by those who are absent. The door slides shut once more, and she pulls her legs up close to her chest.

Somewhere far below, like the belly of a hungry beast, the engines growl. For a moment, gravity is caught out as the shuttle lifts off, and she feels the shove of inertia briefly before the dampeners kick in. She hardly notices when they leave atmosphere, but after a time, the hair on her arms rises, and her skin breaks out in gooseflesh, so she reasons they must be free. Space is always colder than she recalls. She wishes for her cloak - dyed the deep blue of her House, and woven by the weaverwomen of Jiilma - but it lies abandoned back on Coruscant. It had been too damaged to be salvaged. Her shirt and trousers provide little warmth, and she shivers. Alone at last, the numbness falls away. She closes her eyes, wraps her arms around her knees, and weeps.

* * *


	3. The Trick

* * *

She wakes to human voices, speaking soft. Their words are muddied in the low light, meant for each other only, but she can hear enough to recognise the rise of protestation in one, and the rumbling tones of reassurance roll out from the other. It’s not an argument, really, but there is something wanting in one voice that the other struggles to answer. She shifts, and the voices stop.

“Your Grace,” says one. It’s Jinn. She knows him, now, and she keeps her eyes closed though conscious awareness comes back in force. “Are you alright?” 

“Aside from the company,” she grumbles. “Am I not to have any privacy even within the confines of my own room?”

There is a pause, and for a moment she hopes that Jinn, at least, is civil enough to make way for courtesy, and leave her alone. But then the pallet dips by her feet, and he clears his throat. She rolls over to find Jinn sitting on the edge of her bed. She glares, as he regards her, his face fixed in pity. Bitterly, she tugs at the blanket beneath him. Though it is rough, and uncomfortable against her bare arms, she is cold still, and would have it for the little comfort it might provide. If it would knock the Jedi from his perch, that would be an extra blessing. She is not so lucky.

The younger one - Kenobi, she recalls - flicks his gaze to his master, as if to say _do you see?_ and she hates him all the more for his priggish condescension. He is not the master here, and she is not bound to either of them for all that they seem bound to her.

But Jinn seems oblivious to either of their efforts, and he simply waits, somber and quiet until Satine relents, and lets go the blanket from her grip. He reaches out towards her, and she sees that he holds a swathe of fabric, bundled into an untidy pile.

“I imagined you might be cold,” he says, handing the pile over. She accepts it, hoping to find something of use, but it is only one of the crew uniforms - blue coveralls smeared liberally with grease and soot, matched with a set of rather pathetic thermals. There is no attempt to hide her disgust, and Qui-Gon laughs. “I’m afraid these old ships don’t come with all the civility of Coruscant’s upper levels, but your own clothes are hardly suitable for deep space.”

“I might take your cloak,” she suggests. 

Qui-Gon smirks, and tilts his head in a duellist’s salute.

“And here I was thinking, you’d resent dressing in the clothes of a Jedi,” he says. Then, with an encouraging tap to her knee, he gets to his feet. “Now, we will leave you to change. When you’re ready, perhaps you’d like to explore the commissary with us. It must have been several hours since you last ate, and you’re bound to be hungry.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

“Well, Obi-Wan is,” Jinn asserts. His back is to his apprentice and so he cannot see the mutinous glance which darts his way. “And as you’ve seen, he’s trouble when he isn’t fed. You have five minutes.”

They depart in a swirl of cloth, and the pneumatic wheeze of the door, the padawan in step with his master, regardless of the irritation in his stride. Satine waits. Presumably, they have gone no further than a few metres distance, and sure enough, she hears their voices rise again nearby. She picks at one sleeve of the coveralls. It’s not a particularly elegant cut, but it is, she acknowledges, much more practical. Conscious of Jinn’s warning, Satine strips quickly, pulling on the grey thermal layer which, though dirty, is surprisingly soft against her skin. The coveralls follow, and she shoves her discarded trousers and box-shirt into her bag. She pauses for a moment, wondering how many minutes have passed, but the voices continue unabated, so she kneels by her bed, and pulls out her comlink again.

“Ner mesh’kalesara,” says Adonai. “Ni ru'vercopa at c'ogir gar nau gar nuhoy a, ah!”

Her father clutches his buy’ce close, and one hand presses over the iron heart at the centre of his chest. She shakes her head, and smiles at the melodrama of his act. A rap comes at the door.

“Lady Kryze?” calls the reluctant Kenobi. 

Adonai Kryze snaps out of existence.

“Yes, yes,” she mutters, rising to palm the door open. He stands on the other side, his hand raised to knock again, and she shrugs at his bewilderment. “Am I quite to your satisfaction, Padawan Kenobi?” 

He shrugs in turn, the lids of his eyes falling heavy with disinterest. 

“You’ll do,” he says. “Follow me.”

They proceed back down the hall, to the turbolift at the end. Satine does what she can to take up space this time round, but Kenobi slides in with no apparent discomfort though she has only left him a small gap by the controls to occupy. 

As the lift lands, she makes sure to knock his shoulder with her own as she shoves him aside to exit. She hears him huff behind her, but she keeps her eyes forward, hoping to spot Jinn amongst the few passengers lingering here below. Kenobi walks past her, rolling his shoulder and adjusting his jacket. He nods in the direction she looks.

“Those are the escape pods,” he says, drawing her attention to the bank of emergency life vessels laid into the wall beyond. “In the event my company becomes _too_ unbearable.”

She snorts, but bites her tongue. Jinn is not there, and she has no idea where he has gone. She has no choice but to let Kenobi resume the lead, and she follows him, eyes forward, lest he take it into his head to continue his impromptu tour of the facilities. Surely he takes no real pleasure in providing such a service, but then, she cannot claim to fathom the mind of a Jedi padawan. At best, they are mysterious, but at worst...they are monsters. And she is not quite ready to dismiss the stories of her childhood.

Kenobi leads her through the commons, and they cross through to the far side. Several rows of durasteel benches abut several durasteel tables, and beyond them a buffet stretches along the wall. A variety of steaming foods sit in warming trays, or cooler bins and beings walk beside it picking out what they like. Her stomach is set rumbling as artificially heightened scents waft by. The food is enhanced with them in an effort to make reconstituted protein sides more appealing to the senses. It’s a mean trick, but common enough on the more economical deep space ships. Real food is expensive, and difficult to store, but protein packs very nearly never expire. Still, they are never quite as satisfying on the tongue as the real thing. Something is lost in the textures, and the aftertaste is always distinctly unpleasant. 

Jinn appears from thin air, startling her. To her dismay, Kenobi is not at all surprised, and she thinks he must have meant for her to be caught out. He smiles at his master, whatever grievances between them quite forgot, while she gathers the fractured shards of her composure.

“I’ve found a spot for us,” the master says, and without any of the fuss or drama of her previous escort, he leads them to a table shoved deep into the corner of the room. 

Satine is made to sit with her back and side to the walls, while Jinn sits across, and Kenobi at her elbow. It feels rather like being tucked into a shelf, and she - the neglected holobook - has been shoved roughly out of sight. There are two heaping trays spread between them, filled with innumerable questionable entrees.

“I’ve made a small selection of the _delicacies_ on offer,” Jinn grins. 

Satine pokes at a suspiciously round bread roll. “I’m not hungry.”

“Then you can sit and watch as we eat,” Jinn declares instead.

Kenobi plucks the roll from its place before her, and tears it in two. The dough inside is unnaturally smooth and uniform in its rise as it sits, steaming in the padawan’s hand. He takes a bite, and then another. Some strangely mottled fruit is brushed aside in favour of one which is wrinkled and has been dried into a dense leather.

“Muja?” he asks, disbelief clear in his voice though his words are garbled by bread.

“Barely,” Jinn confirms, but Kenobi snags the fruit regardless.

“This is hardly the ceremonial feast we were looking forward to, is it, master?” Kenobi says, mournfully. He pulls at the muja and it splits into several even strips. The first he passes to Jinn, who takes it with a nod of concession to Kenobi’s observation. The second, he keeps for himself. It’s evidently a favourite for he eats it too quickly for Satine to believe he even tastes it. 

“The union celebrations on Ord Cantrell are a decennial event,” says Jinn. “Perhaps we’ll get lucky and catch the next one.”

“Lucky?” cries Kenobi. “We only managed it this time on account of Master Tyvokka being out with the Haidoran flu! Believe me, he won’t make that same mistake again.”

“Oh? And how do you figure?”

“Told me himself, after the briefing,” says Kenobi, munching at another strip. “After he told me all about the beaches, and the sky lounges, and the kneading beds, and the drowsing pools. Said it was the worst mission he’d ever been assigned because he never wanted to come back, and said he’d never betrayed himself more thoroughly than with catching this plague. He was quite passionate - practically made me swear on my saber that I’d see to it you didn’t request it for our own regular roster.”

“And did you?”

“On my _saber_ , master! Of course not,” Kenobi says, aghast, but a smirk quickly slips in to replace the outrage. “I suggested instead that he might look on his illness as a lesson in attachment, and...let it go.”

Jinn chuckles. From somewhere beneath the hoard, he exhumes a bowl of noodles, which he seasons with a pale blue powder. The dust dissolves. The liquid turns green. He spins the strands onto a single vittle stick, and pops it into his mouth. Kenobi slides one last peel of muja across the table, but freezes at the look on Jinn’s face, his hand still hovering over the fruit. Satine can feel there’s something passed between them, but does not know what it is, until Kenobi’s shoulders slump. With an air of reluctant civility, he turns to offer the muja to her instead.

“Would you like a piece?” he offers.

She sniffs. “I said I’m not hungry.” 

She pushes the food before her even closer to the Jedi, and crosses her arms. It’s freezing, and her hands, which she shoves into the pits of her arms, have gone white with cold. Kenobi whips his gaze back to Jinn’s, but his indignation is met only with placidity. Jinn gestures to her empty place.

“You should eat,” he says. “It’s hard to think clearly on an empty stomach.”

“What’s there to think about?” she counters.

Kenobi chews at the last piece of muja, swallowing it along with his ire. She thinks it’s probably the first piece of wisdom he’s yet displayed, and decides it must be the influence of Jinn, as opposed to any instinct of his own. Still, she can read his irritation in the hunch of his shoulders, and in the vehemence with which he attacks the last bit of bread. Jinn sets his own meal aside.

“Right,” he says. “Logistics, then. As you know, Padawan Kenobi and I have been assigned the task of seeing you safely to Mandalore -”

“A service I neither need, nor desire.”

“Yes, you’ve made that _quite_ clear,” Kenobi mutters. 

“Nevertheless,” Jinn says, riding over both objections like wind over a wing. “It has been decided by the Galactic Senate that in an effort to maintain relations with Mandalore, and as a show of good faith on the part of the Jedi Order, we are to see you home. This ferry will disembark at Bandor - the closest port open to Republic leisure vessels - and from there, we will hire a private shuttle to take us to Ka’ralia. Only after you are safely delivered to the arms of your family will we depart. Any questions?”

“How much longer?” she asks.

Kenobi dusts his hands together, and reaches across her for a bottle of voltalyes. “Master?”

Jinn nods, and Kenobi stands, abandoning the remains of his meal, and his duty to Qui-Gon’s care. He slips away through the crowd, tossing his juice from hand to hand, and sidestepping a pair of scuffling Gamoreans with ease. She envies his escape, even as she resents it, and sighs. 

“Is he always so miserable?” she asks, A packet of jammy gums peek out from the food pile. She hasn’t eaten jammy gums for years. Her fingers sneak forward, creeping across the polished steel to take it. The foil pack tears easily, and jelly gemstones fall into her hand, a variety of deep blues, pale greens, and electric yellows.

Jinn sips at his soup. “Are you?”

She shrugs.

“We’re set to reach Bandomeer in under ten hours. I suggest you find some way to occupy your time. Sleep. Read. Maybe eat something better than jammy gums.”

Satine considers the candy melting in her hand. The yellow one...Dahna fruit! That’s what it was meant to be. That was her favourite. She bites into the jammy, the liquid inside bursting across her tongue. It’s tart, and acidic, and far sweeter than she remembered them being as a child. 

Jinn says nothing. He only pulls out a datapad from some hidden pocket, and reads for the rest of the meal.

* * *

Later, after denying any desire to explore the ship, or partake in any of the onboard entertainment provided, Jinn takes her back to their quarters, and declares lights out. They have been up for nearly eighteen hours at this point, and he sees no reason that they should arrive at Bandor worn out and weary. Kenobi agrees - of course he does - and the Jedi tuck themselves quite neatly into their own bunks, and go to sleep. But Satine does not.

Instead, she stares into the blackness, wide awake. Her blanket is coarse. Her clothes are coarse. Her body is still on Coruscant time, and she cannot simply will it into compliance like these _jetiise_ can. She is no sorcerer, no darsh’moha. Jinn snores gently, but Kenobi sleeps as though dead. Outside, the sounds of voices fell silent hours ago, and she’s heard no footsteps pass her door since. Everyone is asleep.

Except for her.

She turns to her side, and reaches for her bag propped at the head of her bed. Her datapad needs charging, and resembles nothing so much as a flimsiweight at this point. She has no desire to scour the holonet in any case. Who knows what it might say about Duke Kryze? Who knows if it would say anything? Her school clothes are temptingly soft. She can’t wait to put them back on, but dreads the thought of staining them with the grime of this ship, and so leaves that particular temptation as a promise for later. At the bottom of her bag she finds the powercell, her comlink, and something else - the candied starblossom she’d purchased at the Gardens. She’d meant it for Breha, but she’d forgotten. The seal is unbroken, but the plastoid box is cracked, and she reasons it must’ve been this which hit the wall so violently earlier. She checks the chrono on her com. It’s late, and classes start early but maybe Breha’s awake. Maybe she’s waiting to hear from her. Maybe she’s worried. Satine palms her device, and it blinks awake. She keys in Breha’s code, but there is no signal. There often isn’t, in hyperspace, but still, she’s disappointed. With no one to talk to, and no one who can hear, she pulls up her last saved message, and lets it play.

“Ner mesh’kalesara…”

The Jedi sleep and Satine turns the volume all the way down to keep it that way. Adonai shimmers in her hand. She watches him clutch his heart. He smiles. He waves off some frivolous words. He leans nearer to warn her about Core soft beings. He laughs soundlessly at his own joke, and Satine feels that reflexive twist of embarrassment that parents always evoke. Then shame. The light of his ghost flickers over the room, and Jinn shifts, a murmur of protestation falling from his lips. She cuts the message short, and waits but the Jedi doesn’t rouse. He only turns his back to the room and falls deeper into slumber.

After a moment, Satine sits up. Her slippers are worn with preference and time, and they slide easily onto her feet. At the door, she hesitates, but in the end, she decides it must be risked. She hits the button, and by some miracle, the steel slides up on the first try. It is not silent, but near enough that the Jedi do not stir as she watches. After a minute, she sneaks out, taking her com and Breha’s starblossom, and letting the door close with a hiss behind her.

The halls are empty, and the commons equally so. What had been a hub of activity only hours before is now dark, and abandoned. The lights have been turned down to their night cycle setting, and the holoscreens all play the same late night advertisements for discounted vibroshivs. At the far end of the space, the buffet has been stripped, and washed. The metal tables and benches have been scoured by the crew and their lone service droid who now sits switched off by a sonicwasher in the corner. The couches and benches that had been earlier commandeered by wayfarers, and holidaying families are devoid of such occupation at this hour, and the wide viewport which runs the full width of the room on one side, is clear of the obstruction of curious heads. Satine stands alone, halfway between, and looks out at the stars.

She cannot see much. Their lights are all stretched thin and distorted by hyperspace, but there is still something soothing in its currents, like a tide coming in. Her comlink blinks to life, as she munches on some starblossom. Adonai’s voice rings out in the hollow den. Her father is there.

“Ner mesh’kalesara…”

_My pretty lily…_

She watches the message play out, then rewinds it, and plays it again. 

“Is that Mandalorian?”

Adonai is extinguished, and she closes a fist over her comlink, hiding it behind her back like something sacred and forbidden. Mykenna, the helmsman, lingers just beyond a dejarik table set round with chairs for eager onlookers. He wipes his hands on the rag at his waist, and steps into the warped eddies of light.

“Sorry,” he says, seeing her jump. “I was curious. I’ve only heard it a couple times before. Are you from there, then?”

“I -”

But before she can speak, there is another voice. She whirls to face it, her shoulders tense, her knees bent in readiness for this next opponent. Kenobi appears from the shadows, his hand outstretched in invitation.

“Darling,” he says, his voice soft with an affection that makes her suspicious. “Come back to our rooms. Your father is looking for you.”

“Father?” says Mykenna. “Is that the Jedi? But I thought -”

Kenobi only smiles at his confusion, turning the conversation to something else entirely, talking until he is close enough to put himself between the helmsman and his ward.

“Mykenna, was it?” he asks. “I’d not thought they’d have you on patrol so soon after your bridge shift ended. Are you not tired?”

And then, as though the thought is mother to reality, the helmsman yawns.

“Exhausted, really,” he agrees. His head nods with weariness.

“Exhausted,” echoes Kenobi. He rolls his wrist, two fingers held out and waving in empathy. “You ought to carry on to bed.”

“I ought to go to bed,” Mykenna says. He nods an apology at Satine, and then at Kenobi, smiling his regrets. “Pardon my rudeness, but I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to find your own way. I’m dead on my feet.”

“Not at all,” Kenobi smiles. “Sleep well.”

And as abruptly as he appeared, Mykenna departs, whistling in the dark, any thoughts of Mandalore completely forgotten.

“What did you do to him?” Satine demands.

Kenobi looks at her. 

“What makes you think I did anything?” he asks, mouth crooked, eyes glittering in the light of the stars.

She glares, stepping around him and back until he is at the window, and she has the escape pods behind her.

“Jetii osik,” she spits, her voice tight with disdain. “Mirde’shuk. You bent his mind to yours.”

“And what if I did?” he demands, no longer so confident in his designs, her anger clawing at him, a near visceral thing in the dark. “He was asking questions.”

She shakes her head. “You jetii - so superior,” she says. “He was just curious.”

“And his curiosity might have put you in danger.”

“He was _harmless_ ,” she insists.

“Oh, he’s fine,” Kenobi hisses back. “I only encouraged him along, but it was his own impulse. I didn’t possess him. _You’re_ the one who instigated this little scenario. If you feel so guilty then why did you put yourself in danger by leaving our quarters in the first place?”

"Who said that I feel guilty?"

"Your prejudices speak for you."

"And your arrogance for you," she spits. "At least I do not have to compel people to acknowledge my authority."

"No," he agrees. "You were born to it."

"I am not the villain here," she says. "My people know your tyranny for what it is, and yet I have borne your presence with such grace that anyone would think me an Angel, not a Mandalorian. I only wanted a minute away from your oppressive scrutiny!"

"Is that so?" he demands. "And how is that working out for you?"

She hates him, she thinks. She really does. It is a churning, bitter revulsion that burns deep in her gut, and bubbles in her blood like acid, until she thinks that when she speaks her words might scald him tangibly. She opens her mouth, venom on her tongue, and in the moment between one scathing response and the next, the emergency lights flare to life, and the claxons blare. Voices from the bridge echo down the hall, as blast doors strain against the wedges which have so long kept them open. Passenger quarters open, and terror comes to life.

The ship is under attack.

Satine cocks her head, and fixes Kenobi with a withering glare.

“Better and better every minute,” she says.

  
  


* * *


	4. The Hunter

* * *

By the time they reach their quarters, the ship has already been bolted and boarded. This tells Obi-Wan they are professionals. This tells Satine they are Mandalorians. Neither revelation is helpful in the moment, as they struggle through the crowds of panicked passengers who woke to feel the ship jerk to a stop beneath their feet, and hear the sounds of a hull breach screaming in the dead of space. Kenobi keeps her hand held tightly in his as they push against the tide. Overhead, the voice of the captain crackles through the speakers.

“Please, return to your cabins. Please, lock your doors. Please, stay calm. Don’t panic. Please, return to your cabins. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.”

He says the same thing, over and over, and at first, there is some effect. Even as his voice raises in pitch, and his pleas become more desperate, most passengers listen. A family of Twi’leks - a mother, and two children - sit huddled together on their bunk. Satine catches a glimpse as Kenobi drags her by. Their eyes are wide with terror, but they are calm. Determined. Their door slides shut as Satine watches, and she can hear the ancient lock settle in place. A school group stands silent, hands in the air to demonstrate their focus, as their teacher works to divide them into partners, and secure them in their rooms. The Gamoreans from earlier walk shoulder to shoulder, pushing everyone aside to cut the line of those waiting to access the lifts to go below. Kenobi has to fight to break them apart, so that he and Satine are not forced backward towards the shaft they only just escaped. 

“We have to find Master Qui-Gon,” he says. She can feel his hand slick with sweat for holding hers so tightly. He keeps his eyes forward, and doesn’t stop for anything. When she stumbles, he only tugs her harder, urging her to keep going.

At last, they reach their door, just as the captain’s plea cuts out, and true panic sets in. Kenobi moves behind her. His chest is pressed to her back, and she feels the shock of impact as he is buffeted by beings no longer held in check by the tenuous faith they’d placed in the authority of the crew. Screams go up, and shouts of despair. Satine can hear someone crying just behind her, but when she turns her head, all she sees is Kenobi’s arm, still clad in his sleep clothes, braced beside her on the wall. Soon, though, the door opens, and Jinn is on the other side, worried, and waiting to pull them in. As suddenly as the ship broke into chaos, peace falls. The door shuts, and the world outside goes silent.

“Are you alright?” Jinn asks, his hands on Kenobi’s shoulders.

“Yes, master,” he nods. “We’ve been boarded. Pirates?”

“We should be so lucky,” he replies.

Jinn glances at Satine, and then once at their hands, still joined, her’s in a white-knuckled grip around his. He steps between them to relieve his padawan of the burden, and guides Satine to her bunk. She hadn’t noticed she was trembling until she sits, and Jinn takes her hands in his own. They are large, and for a moment, she marvels at the difference in size as she had as a girl with her own father.

“Satine?” Jinn says, bringing her back. “Are you alright?”

Overhead, the speaker crackles back to life once more, but the voice that comes through is not that of the captain.

“Beings and persons of the Republic, do not fear. We have not come to raid and pillage, or to enslave. We have one simple objective. On board this ship, there is a girl. A Mandalorian. She is the daughter of House Kryze, and a traitor to her people. If you turn her over to our custody, we will allow your vessel to carry on in peace. If you do not, then we will kill every single being on board until we find her. To that end, if everyone would be so good as to join us on the lido deck, immediately, your cooperation would be greatly appreciated. Anyone choosing to remain in their quarters will be considered non-compliant, and killed. O'r te gai be kyr'am!”

The channel cuts out.

“Bounty hunters,” she says. Jinn says nothing, but the look in his eyes confirms it.

“Obi-Wan,” he says. He releases her hands, and stands to face his padawan. “Take Satine down to the commons with the others. Stay there for as long as you can. Blend in.”

“And where will you be?”

“I’ll be taking back the bridge.”

“Master!” The protest is immediate, and instinctive. Satine sees Kenobi tense, and for the first time she thinks there is something lurking beneath that arrogant, and mocking facade. But he masters himself quickly, and carries on in a tone of unreasonable calm. “You cannot go alone,” he says. “We don’t know how many there are, or how well armed. What if you need help? I should be with you.”

“We cannot leave the Duchess unguarded,” Jinn replies. His tone brooks no argument, but Kenobi argues anyway.

“We can leave her here. She’ll be safe -”

“They’ll be searching the berths. Padawan, no.” The master lets the weight of duty settle upon the title, and soon Kenobi straightens, bearing up under it. “You will take the Duchess below. You will disappear. And you will wait for me to find you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, master,” Kenobi says, and he bows his head in submission.

“Then go,” says Jinn. He passes Kenobi his jacket, discarded for bed, and now useful once more as a disguise. 

The padawan protests no further, slipping the jacket over the pale sark, and loose cream tunic he’d slept in. He lacks the tabards and trappings of Jinn, and she thinks, if not for the quality of the material and its brightness, he might be any number of the young boys she used to see roving Capital City in packs, laughing and engaged in all sorts of general mischief. He can’t be much older than them. The braid which hangs just past his shoulder is wrapped up, and pinned beneath a soft cap, and a saber, concealed at the waist of his master, is passed over to vanish inside one of the many pockets of Kenobi’s coat. He clasps the front closed, and the Jedi is erased entirely. 

“Trust yourself,” says Jinn. “Trust your training. Trust in the Force.”

Kenobi grins, and cocks his head as though this were any other Taungsday.

“Always, master,” he says. “I’ll wait for you.”

Then, taking Satine’s hand once more in his own, he palms open the door and the world comes rushing back. She takes one last look at Qui-Gon as the crowd closes in around them. He stands upright, and proud, his blue eyes catching hers. He is stoic, and unafraid, and she thinks that if he wore beskar, he could hardly be more like the Mand’alors of old than he appears now. She blinks, and turns away, training her gaze on the forward bent of Kenobi’s shoulders as he leads her back below.

There is no shortage of suffering in the commons when they arrive. Parents clutch their children close. The school group huddles together, hands, and elbows, and tendrils linked. Their lone teacher tries fruitlessly to soothe one young boy who is sobbing against her shoulder, but it is difficult when her own tears rush to meet his. A scuffle breaks out between a Bufopel and two Gorums over seating, and a young Lupr’orian couple hold each other, swaying side to side. Satine catches their eyes, as they seem to recognise something of themselves in her and Kenobi. Her hand tenses involuntarily, and Kenobi looks back to check on her. He follows her gaze to the couple, and for a moment, all four of them are caught in some strange liminality of time, and space, and identity. But it’s only a mirage. Hopefully one substantial enough to save her life.

“Come on,” Kenobi says, and he pulls her away. 

He finds them space against a wall, hidden from view by a looming Baragwin, but not hiding. He puts his back to the steel panels, and draws her in front, so that he may keep the rest of the room in his sight. An arm slips around her waist, and the other cradles her head, pulling her down to settle in the crook of his neck. It is intimate. Anyone would mistake them for young lovers, except that Kenobi offers no words of comfort, and Satine finds none in his embrace. Her breath rasps loudly over the leather of his coat, and she can hear his heart beat, low and steady beneath. They stay like this for minutes. Hours. Until the day lights are cycled up, and the sirens cut out. 

She flinches as a blast door slams open, and hard soled boots ring over the durasteel. Kenobi holds her tighter, and she wraps her own arms about his waist, turning to hide her face in his chest. 

“Where is your master?” she breathes so quietly he may not hear.

But he does. His lips brush over the crown of her head, and then settle just above her ear, an answer couched in the shape of a kiss. “Trust him,” he whispers. “The Force will provide.”

“What?” she asks. “What will it provide?”

“The way,” he says, and rocks her gently.

The boots stop and the crowd falls silent. Not one cough, nor sob, nor sniffle breaks the stillness of the deck...until the hunter speaks.

“Lady Kryze,” he says, addressing the room at large. “If you would do yourself the favour of surrendering yourself immediately then we could cut this whole unpleasant business short, and go about our day.”

He waits, but Satine says nothing, and Kenobi only strokes her back in comfort. After a minute, the hunter tries again.

“No? Then let me remind you that these people are innocent of the crimes of your family. And they will die for your dishonour if you do not reveal yourself. Is that the legacy you would choose? The legacy of a hutuun?”

“Obi-Wan -” she gasps, pulling back to look. But Kenobi stills her, his hands against her cheeks, he shakes his head.

In the transparisteel viewport beside her, she can see the reflection of the hunter. He is not alone. Two others stand with him, and all are dressed in beskar painted scarlet and gold. She watches as they break off and circulate amongst the crowd.

“Very well,” says their leader. “Remember that we gave you the chance to end this honourably. Helmsman!”

From the crowd, Helmsman Mykenna is pushed forward, stumbling to his knees before the hunter. Another Mandalorian in beskar appears to assist him to his feet. The leader waits, making no effort to acknowledge the terror in the helmsman’s eyes.

“This Jedi you spoke of - do you see him here?”

Mykenna swallows, and looks briefly over the crowd. Obi-Wan turns his head, his cheek pressing against her skull.

“No,” says the helmsman. 

The lead hunter nods at one of his men who breaks off their search, and Satine knows he must be going to seek out Master Jinn. Then, the attention is back on the shaking Mykenna.

“And what about the girl?” the hunter asks. “The one who spoke Mandalorian?”

“She - she didn’t speak it,” Mykenna clarifies, desperate to clear himself of any misdirection the hunter may accuse him of. “She only had it on her comlink. It was a message. I didn’t hear her speak it.”

The hunter waits for him to finish, but his blank silence does nothing to assuage the helmsman’s fears.

“Is she here?” he asks.

Again Mykenna looks over the room, his gaze wild and restless.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. 

“No?” the hunter replies. He pulls out his blaster. The high pitched sound of a death charge winds up through the air. Someone gasps, and Mykenna is held pinned by the Mandalorian at his back. “Look again,” the hunter suggests.

This time, Mykenna’s gaze is thorough. He passes over the room, and passes over their corner once, then twice, and on the third time, the Baragwin shifts, and they are revealed.

“There,” says the helmsman, his arm outstretched and his finger pointing directly at them. 

Satine surges against Kenobi, but he does not let go. He is calm, and keeps her pinned tight, her face hidden even as the hunter approaches, his beskar boots thundering nearer and nearer and then stopping so close she can see the tips of his feet when she looks down between them.

“You, boy,” the hunter says. Kenobi holds her tighter still.

“Yes, sir?” he asks.

“Your name.”

“Rowan Motz,” he says. There is no hesitation. “And my wife, Perriluna.”

“Motz, is it?” the hunter says. A steel covered hand grabs at her elbow, to pry her free, but Kenobi resists, twisting them so that he is between the hunter and his prey.

“She’s frightened, sir,” he says. “She’s never left Coruscant before. She’s not this Duchess you speak of. She’s not the girl you’re looking for.”

He leans on the words with such weight that Satine can feel them press against her own thoughts. She nearly believes him, herself. There is more power behind this suggestion than he’d used on Mykenna, and yet it is not enough. The hunter steps forward, and Satine hears steel hit flesh. Kenobi staggers, and for a moment, she bears all his weight. But then he is lifted, and she is free, blinking in the bright light of the commons. 

“Jedi,” the hunter snarls, his fist curled in the collar of Kenobi’s coat. Blood runs from a split lip, but Kenobi doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, and doesn’t lose his feet as the hunter throws him back. Over his shoulder, the hunter tilts his head, helmet on, the visor of his buy’ce opaque making his expression impossible to read as he surveys Satine. “Your Grace,” he says, with the barest of bows. “Good to meet you at last.”

“I cannot say the feeling is mutual,” she replies, pressing her back to the wall. Kenobi reaches behind him for her hand, and she pulls him back, guiding him while he keeps his eyes on the hunters now gathering before them.

“Tell you what,” the hunter says, shouldering his blaster. “You come with us quietly, and we’ll leave your Jedi dog, and forget it tried its tricks. I’m sure its master is around here, somewhere, and so I’d like to make this quick.”

She says nothing, and Kenobi widens his stance, palm open, waiting to call his saber.

“Alright,” the hunter says, taking their silence as his answer. “In that case-”

Faster than thought, he raises his blaster and shoots the Baragwin who shielded them. The being falls back, and slumps against the wall, dead. His blood runs black and sluggish over the durasteel panels. Kenobi’s boots are stained with it, and she feels its warmth sprayed across her cheek. 

“Let’s try this again,” the hunter says. “And this time, no mercy. We'll kill the Jedi pup.”

He levels his blaster at Kenobi, and the crowd beyond them grows mutinous, whispers and outrage building as the Jedi hesitates. He can’t draw his blade, she realises. The passengers are too close, and he can’t fight all four hunters at once. The viewport is at her side, and a durasteel wall at her back. There is no escape. They are trapped.

Then, gravity shifts, and the ship lists dramatically to one side tumbling passengers, hunters, Jedi, and duchesses alike. People scream, and there are a few cries of injury as bodies impact steel and framework at speed. The lights go out, and the speaker crackles back to life.

“This is Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. I am sorry to inform you that the engines of this ship have been severely compromised, and this vessel is now on a collision course with your local planetary object - though, as I do not have access to navigation at the time, I cannot speak exactly to its name. If you wish to avoid a painful death as this ship burns up in atmosphere, I suggest you send someone to release the bridge crew so that they may attend their duties, and regain control of their ship. We can discuss the terms of your surrender there.”

The lights flicker back into wakefulness as the ship levels out, and the passengers struggle to collect themselves. Satine watches the hunter recover. He is fast, but Kenobi is faster, and rushes forward, taking the hunter to the ground with brute force. They grapple, but Satine knows it can’t be sustained. They need to move. Now. They need to get away, and hide or run. But they cannot fight. She stumbles against the wall as the ship rolls, her hands scrambling for purchase, only to find a small depression in the steel, and a lever marked _In Case of Emergency._ A fire alarm. Then, as the words of Master Jinn begin to register with the passengers, kindling a tiny flame of confusion, she reaches out and pulls the alarm, igniting the room in a blaze of hysteria. 

Claxons blare. Sirens howl. Lights flash in reds and bright whites, warning of the danger. Inertia begins to build as the ship plummets, and the mass of terrified beings forget the danger of the hunters in their haste to escape certain death. They scream. They leap from their seats. They race around, tumbling into each other, senseless and directionless. Someone runs into her from behind, and Satine falls, slipping under the surge of people. A foot clips her chin and she covers her head, but then Kenobi is there, somehow free of the hunter, and he takes her hand again, dragging her to her feet. He pulls her through the crowd, and she twists, keeping her eyes open and wide. A flash of scarlet to their left - but Kenobi twists and kicks their assailant off. Blaster fire rings out, and they do not fight as the tide of terror carries them away from the source. They push on, keeping their heads down, not sure where they are going, as long as it is away and hidden, as long as they can be lost.

But they are found. The hunter - the one with the blood of the Baragwin and the Jedi on his gauntlets - steps into their path. 

“Found you, stiil’ika,” he croons. 

Kenobi falters, falling back into Satine. She turns, but there is a hunter there, too, and the people around them begin to move away, knowing what’s to come. There is a hiss, like rain upon a fire, and hum, and then a blaze of green as a saber swings wide to strike at the lead hunter. It is caught on the beskar of his vambraces, but the force and the heat of the blade are enough to drive him back as his flesh burns beneath his armour. With a few more blows, Jinn pushes the hunter into a retreat, while Obi-Wan kicks out the knees of the subordinate behind them. Free once more, Kenobi leads her deeper and deeper into the crowd, away from the viewport and back towards the sleep tubes and emergency ladder. At the lifts, he stops, and turns to her.

“We need to get off this ship,” he shouts, his voice barely carrying over the noise. His eyes, however, speak clearly and she follows his gaze to the escape pods on the far wall. She snaps her head back to him, a protest on her lips, but he speaks first. “It was your idea,” he says.

“Yes, but I meant it as an escape from _you_ ,” she says.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he shrugs. “But I’m afraid you’re rather stuck with me now.”

Unlike every other door on this ship, the escape hatch opens easily and he offers her his hand to assist her inside. Seeing their plan, other beings begin opening the pods, and pushing forward to claim their salvation. Kenobi fights them back, urging them to stay with the ship for as long as possible, and stay calm, but it’s useless. From where she’s stowed within, Satine reaches out to grab Kenobi’s arm.

“Get in,” she cries. “We have to close the door!”

She hauls at him, and he relents, climbing up and into the pod, shaking off the grasping hands of desperate passengers who’d go with him if he allowed it. He pulls the door shut, but slaps at her hands when she tries to engage the locking mechanism. His face is pressed to the small viewport, even as he holds her back with one arm.

“Wait, don’t!” he snaps. 

“What’re you waiting for?”

“Master Qui-Gon,” he snaps at her, turning back only to ensure she’s away from the controls then looking out at the crowd beyond once more, craning to see beyond the people beating at their door. 

“If they find us here, they’ll kill us,” she insists. “We’re cornered. There’s no other option. We have to go now.”

“I’m not leaving without him.”

“Kenobi, I’m ordering you -”

“You cannot order me,” he shouts. “You’re not my master. You’re not my better. I am not leaving without my master.”

Outraged, terrified, and exhausted she leaps upon his back, grappling for the release panel. The pod is small, and when he rears back to shake her off, she’s slammed into the curved wall, and knocks her head against the seal. Dazed, she drops to the ground. But she does not want to die, and so she rises up to fight again.

“Get off!” he cries, grabbing at her wrists, but there is nowhere for them or their anger to go. They tumble over and over each other, grappling for control, driven by fear.

She gets in a knee to his gut, winding him, and he falls back, her hands finally clear to disengage the pod. She looks up through the viewport as she locks the door, the twisted arms of its seal straightened like a spinner’s legs, and in that instant, Satine sees Master Jinn just on the other side of the transparisteel, looking back.

“Master Jinn!” She paws at the controls, frantically trying to undo all she’d done, to unseal the lock, and open the door.

Then Kenobi is up, and shoving her aside, calling for his master. He works the control panel frantically, and the door seal hisses as the pressure is released. 

“Just a minute, master!” Kenobi shouts, tapping at the viewport, and at the pad. “Just wait!”

The locks click open, and then...the locks click shut. On the other side of the door, Jinn’s face is furrowed in concentration as he leans to the side, inputting his own commands to the pod. There is a hiss as the cabin is repressurized, and a deep thump as the docking clamps are released, the vessel preparing to deploy.

“What?” Kenobi gasps. He abandons the control panel as the computer refuses to acknowledge his commands. The internal driver has been overridden, answering only to the exterior access pad. “What’re you doing - _Master!_ ”

He grows desperate, slapping at the circular port but it remains firm and unbroken beneath his fist. Jinn is calm. Behind him, a hunter looms. Satine can see them stalking nearer, the crowd around Jinn thinning as they approach. She shrinks back, but Kenobi is not defeated. He beats at the port, calling for his master, desperate to reach him, to warn him, to be there with him. Jinn looks back, and sees the hunter, but it’s too late: the path is set. With one last look at his padawan, he places his palm flat against the viewport, the warmth of his hand bleeding through to Kenobi’s own. A shrill alert cuts through the cabin, notifying them of departure. The pod loses gravity. Its atmo regulators hum to life, and thrusters begin to fire. Beneath her, the floor shudders, and the thin steel plates of the vessel vibrate, setting the whole thing rattling around them. 

“Master, no,” Kenobi begs, but Qui-Gon turns away. 

The hunter approaches, drawing a pike, and they watch the Jedi square his feet in defiance. His green blade springs to life just as the airlock slams shut, and the pod breaks free. Alone, and abandoned, they fall away into the gravity of the planet below.

* * *

  
  



End file.
